


Rub Me the Right Way

by kingsofeverything



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Genie Louis, Harry's just an idiot, M/M, Possible consent issues re: magic, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, very mild though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsofeverything/pseuds/kingsofeverything
Summary: As the owner of a second hand shop, Harry comes into contact with a lot of strange and unusual objects. There is, however, a first time for everything.





	Rub Me the Right Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuickedWeen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickedWeen/gifts).

> Happy birthday, Molly! Surprise, it's Genie!Louis!
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://kingsofeverything.tumblr.com/post/187217817255/rub-me-the-right-way-by-kingsofeverything-as-the), Tweet is [here](https://twitter.com/FullOnLarrie/status/1164984757240967168?s=20)
> 
> Thanks to Nic as always!
> 
> **If you’d like to translate any of my fics, feel free, but please post the translation on ao3. **
> 
>   
**Please do not post this fic or any of my other fics on any other websites.**  


Sometimes, on slow days, Harry wonders how he wound up here, running a second hand shop in Brooklyn. But on days like today, he doesn’t have time to think about it. 

“Niall!” Brushing the dust and grime from his hands onto his grey sweatpants, Harry weaves his way through the back of the shop, around stacks of books and boxes of knickknacks, to the beaded curtain that hangs in the doorway separating the storage room from the actual store. He finds Niall where he almost always finds him, sitting on the rickety wooden stool behind the counter, attempting to pick out pop songs on the ukulele that he thinks he’s keeping, but that Harry plans to sell as soon as Niall isn’t looking. He’s really tired of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ and it used to be one of his favorite songs. “Hey, Ni, the truck should be here in like—”

“Came like ten minutes ago. Dropped the boxes at the door while I was ringing up Mister Rogers.” Niall nods his head to the side, indicating the bookshop across the street. 

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Harry says, “Why do you insist on calling him that?”

“It’s the cardigans. Also, he calls us ‘neighbor’ as if he doesn’t know our names.” Niall picks out the beginning of ‘Dueling Banjos’ and Harry throws his pencil at him, but he ducks. 

“He’s just being friendly.” Harry shakes his head and grabs the box off the top of the stack by the door. Everything he couldn’t carry back on his own from the estate sale last weekend, he’d shipped to the shop, and he’s only now realizing how much there is to go through. On the way back to the storage room, Harry stops and yells, “I wear cardigans!”

“Yeah,” Niall shouts back, “But your hair is… Your hair. His is like… Mister Rogers’ hair.”

“Whatever.” Harry ducks into the storage room, beaded curtain clattering behind him. 

At least the delivery guy stacked the boxes neatly this time, with the lightest on top. One by one, Harry hauls the boxes to the back and empties them, cleaning and repairing what he can as he goes. Niall pops his head through the beaded curtain at closing time, but Harry waves him on, wanting to finish up before he leaves for the night. Not like he has anyone waiting for him at home anyway. 

The biggest box is also the heaviest, of course, but Harry doesn’t remember what’s inside. His mental checklist of purchases from the estate sale is already completely marked off, though it wouldn’t be the first time he bought something and forgot about it. 

Harry opens the box to find an incredibly well packaged collection of glass bottles in every color in the rainbow. There’s been some sort of shipping mistake because he has absolutely no memory of buying any glass bottles, let alone an entire box full. He folds the flap of the box over to double check the shipping address, but it’s clearly labeled with his name and address in his own handwriting, just like the others. Maybe that brownie Niall gave him was stronger than he thought. 

Most of the bottles are dusty, but not too bad — a quick swipe with a rag and they’re good to go. Harry works his way through the box, cleaning as he goes, checking for chips and cracks, taking pictures of each item with his phone, and adding it to the list on his clipboard. Some of the bottles are clearly newer, but a few he sets aside to research before he sells them. One of those is so grimy that the top is stuck and he can’t quite make out the color. It could be green or it could be blue or maybe it’s clear glass, but it’s just that dirty. He saves it for last, figuring he’ll take it home with him and clean it there. It’s sure to take a while and probably will need a good soak in some warm soapy water. 

By the time Harry closes up, it’s long past dark, and he’s sore and tired from crouching and squatting and bending over while he worked. He stretches his back before starting up the stairs to his apartment, which thankfully isn’t a long walk from the shop. After popping some leftovers in the microwave, Harry turns on some music and sets to work cleaning the last dingy glass bottle. He fills the sink with hot water and a few squirts of dish soap, fully submerging the bottle in the suds and letting it soak while he shovels too hot lasagne in his mouth and sips a glass of red wine. 

With his hot pink rubber gloves on, Harry starts by washing it gently with a cloth and a few layers of nastiness come off, but when he rinses it under running water, it’s still very dirty, so he tries a soft bristled toothbrush. The bottle is covered with intricate details that he didn’t notice before, but as he carefully scrubs, the designs appear. Since the toothbrush works, Harry keeps it up, working the bristles around the raised images, revealing them as he goes. The entire bottle is decorated with tiny anchors and ropes and Harry thinks that maybe he’ll keep this one for himself, since it didn’t cost anything and it practically matches his tattoo. It takes over an hour to get it clean, but the time was worth it. The bottle is the most beautiful bluey greeny blue. Harry is definitely keeping it. Even if the lid won’t come off.

He submerges it again, attempting to scrub what looks like residue from a price sticker off the bottom, but it won’t budge. Sighing, Harry lets the bottle sink and pulls one glove off. Holding it firmly in his gloved hand, Harry scrapes at the sticky smudge with his thumbnail until it’s gone. Grinning, Harry leaves the bottle in the sink while he takes off his other glove and finds a towel to dry it with. He reaches into the soapy water, pulls the drain plug, feeling around for the bottle. The back of his bare hand brushes against the glass.

Screaming, Harry jumps backwards, tripping over the chair behind him, and crashing to the floor. 

“That is not what I like to hear when a pretty boy sees me naked for the first time,” the beautiful man sitting in Harry’s sink says and hops down, dripping sudsy water all over Harry’s kitchen floor. “Just a sec!” He spins around and Harry catches a glimpse of the best ass he’s ever seen before it disappears.

“Oh my god,” Harry whispers, letting his head fall back onto the floor. He’ll just lay there for a bit. Clearly, he’s overtired, though it’s possible he’s hallucinating. Maybe Niall’s brownies were a lot stronger than he thought. If so, he’s probably still at Niall’s place and this whole day has been one bad trip. “Niall!”

“Name’s Louis, actually.”

Harry sits up faster than he thought possible, scooting back as fast and as far as he can until he’s crammed into the corner by the fridge. He will never trust any food given to him by Niall Horan again for as long as he lives. Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. 

“This isn’t happening, Harry. It’s just a bad trip. We’ll kill Niall when we’re sober.” Harry continues repeating variations of those words, rocking himself back and forth. 

“You’re sober.” Harry lifts his head and opens his eyes to find the same beautiful man standing in his kitchen, talking to him. This time he’s dressed identical to Harry, down to the fuzzy pink socks, with one addition: glittery, gold cuffs on his wrists. “And this is totally happening.” 

“I’m not and it isn’t. In real life there’s not a gorgeous guy in my kitchen wearing my clothes.” Harry shakes his head violently, trying to knock his brain around. Maybe it’ll help. It doesn’t. His gaze travels up from the pink socks, to the threadbare grey sweatpants, to… “Are my sweatpants that revealing?”

“Gorgeous, eh?” He smirks and says, “And yes, I can see your cock through your pants.”

“Jesus Christ!” Harry scrambles to his feet, cupping his junks with both hands to be sure it’s all covered, and shrieking, “Who are you?”

“Said my name’s Louis.” Louis winks. “And you’re Harry. Thanks for the bath, by the way. And for letting me out of there.” He picks the glass bottle up out of the sink and Harry notices the cap is missing. 

“How’d you get the lid— Wait a minute! How’d you know my name?” More evidence that this is a hallucination. 

“You’re quite loud, you know?” Louis tilts the bottle and closes one eye to peer inside. “Could hear your deep voice like, echoing around in here.”

“What?” Harry realizes he’s still holding his crotch, so he tries to play it off, shoving his hands in his pockets and hoping his fists disguise his bulge a bit. It doesn’t seem to be working for Louis, who copies his movements. For a hallucination, he’s well hung. And he keeps smirking at Harry, which shouldn’t be hot, but he’s always had a thing for a bit of overconfidence. 

Hallucinations shouldn’t be able to be smart asses and they shouldn’t roll their eyes at their… hallucinators. Louis shakes his head slightly and says, “I’m a genie. This is my bottle. You’re my master. And I—”

“Nope! No, no, no, no, no!” Harry waves both hands and backs away, though he’s still in the corner by the fridge so there’s nowhere else to go. “I am no one’s master. That’s… That’s like… Just, no.”

“Okay,” Louis says, dragging out the vowels and looking at Harry askance. “Usually people jump at the chance for a few wishes, but—”

“Listen, Louis.” Harry pushes away from the wall and attempts to gather his wits about him. He’s not very successful, but he’s always pretty good at faking it. He breathes deeply and says as calmly as possible, “I’m having a hallucination which you are part of.”

“Listen, Harry.” Louis pushes away from the sink, tipping his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. Bluey greeny blue. “I’m not part of a hallucination, but you’re more than welcome to think I am.” He steps a little closer and Harry’s eyes dart side to side, but he’s not jumping out of the window, so he stays put. Louis holds the bottle out and says, “Do you want to see?”

Harry scoffs. “Sure, yeah. Why not? I’ll—” A swirling vortex of blue and green spins around them so fast that Harry can’t see his kitchen and then it’s gone. “What the fuck?”

“This is my—”

“Holy shit. I’m going to murder Niall the next time I see him. What the hell was in those brownies?” Harry claps his hands to his cheeks and he knows he probably looks like a bad imitation of Macaulay Culkin in _Home Alone, _but now is not the time to worry about appearances. 

A heavy sigh draws Harry’s attention and he looks over at Louis, who’s reclining on a squashy green sofa in the middle of a dimly lit living room that is much nicer than Harry’s. Louis blinks slowly and Harry isn’t sure he’s ever noticed anyone’s eyelashes before, they’re so long and they look soft. Harry moves forward as if he’s going to reach out and touch them, but then Louis clears his throat and says, “Harry.”

“Yes?”

“Sit.” Louis pats the sofa cushion and Harry sits. He can’t think of a reason not to. And sitting brings him closer to Louis’ eyelashes, though he promises himself he won’t touch them. “Harry, you’re not hallucinating or dreaming. I usually don’t have to do much to prove myself to people. Popping out of a bottle tends to be enough. Occasionally I’ll grant a small freebie wish, but I get the feeling that won’t work for you.”

Harry shakes his head because it seems like the thing to do in the moment. He’s a little caught up in the scruffy beard dusting Louis’ jaw and lifts his hand to stroke it without thinking. He jerks it away. “Sorry!”

“It’s fine, Harry. You can touch me.”

Bringing his hand up again slowly, Harry says, “This is so realistic. It’s like you’re actually here.”

Louis sighs, sounding exasperated. “Fine. Fine. Just… Make a wish. I’ll grant it. We can go from there.” 

“You’re very pretty. I wish you were real.” Harry pouts a little because he really does wish that. He’s been alone for too long. And Louis is just his type. Of course he is, being a figment of Harry’s imagination. 

“Well, that was a pointless wish,” Louis says, looking much more fond than he should, considering that they don’t even know each other’s last names. “Try again.”

“Okay. I wish I was sober.” Something has to do the trick to stop this hallucination. Louis snaps his fingers and nothing happens. Looking around to find that he’s still sitting on a squashy green couch in Louis’ apartment with the weird windows, Harry says, “Nothing happened.”

“You had one glass of wine, Harry.” Louis twirls one finger in the air. “Took half a second to filter it from your system. Wish for something _hard.”_

“Hard,” Harry repeats, snorting uncontrollably because he will always find penis jokes funny, sober or inside his hallucinations. “Hard… I wish… I wish…” Frowning, Harry wracks his brain for something that’s impossible, something he’s tried and failed to make happen inside a dream. It dawns on him that there are only a few things on that list, and that a real genie would never grant a wish like this. “A blow job!”

Instantly, Harry’s sweatpants are around his ankles, and Louis is kneeling between his legs with Harry’s still flaccid cock in his mouth. 

“What the—” Harry gasps when Louis pulls off, licking at the head before sitting back. With a snap of his fingers, Harry’s dick goes from soft to fully erect so fast that his head spins. 

That’s never happened in his dreams before, and the one time he dropped acid in college, he laid on his bunk staring at his roommate’s poster of Britney Spears until he thought he was Britney, bitch. He only remembered his penis existed when he went to the bathroom to pee and it was… Well, there were tears and afterwards he decided that hallucinogens were not for him. 

His cock throbs and Harry laughs, wondering if he’ll come in his dream-slash-trip and wake up the way he used to sometimes when he was a teenager, or if the entire hallucination will dissolve before he gets the chance to orgasm. Still laughing because the entire situation is bizarre and hilarious to him, he looks down at Louis waiting patiently. 

“Sorry, um…” After clearing his throat, Harry says, “Carry on.” 

“You’ve, um… Come around, then?” Louis waggles his eyebrows. “Believe me now?”

“Yeah, sure.” Harry nods convulsively. As if he’s going to argue with a figment of his own imagination. Not when it might suck him off.

“Cool. No one ever asks for this, you know?” Louis dips down and sucks the first few inches of Harry’s cock into his mouth, tightening his lips around it as he bobs up and down. He pulls off again and says, “Haven’t sucked a dick in centuries, actually. Missed it.”

Before Harry can comment, Louis takes him back down again and Harry loses the ability to speak coherently. It hasn’t been centuries, but it’s been long enough since he’s had sex of any kind with anyone, that he has to focus on not coming instantaneously. And Louis is really good at this. Of course he is. Harry wouldn’t hallucinate a hot guy who’s bad at sex. 

Losing himself to the heat of Louis’ mouth, Harry lets loose a groan that Louis echoes, the vibrations traveling through his dick and up his spine. Despite his every effort to hold back, his orgasm builds, his balls draw tight against his body, and he spills into Louis’ mouth. Louis swallows the first spurt and leans back, working Harry through it while he comes all over Louis’ face. As soon as Harry catches his breath, he reaches for Louis, cupping his jaw and rubbing his come into his beard. 

Snapping his fingers and cleaning Harry’s come from his face, Louis asks, “Liked that, did ya?” Harry nods. “Want to wish for something else?”

“Wasn’t that three? I only get three wishes, right?” Harry drags his sweatpants up his legs, covering himself. He’s not much for one night stands and isn’t quite sure what to do when they occur in his dreams-slash-hallucinations. 

With a shake of his head, Louis says, “Nope. Unlimited wishes. As long as they’re not like, murdery.”

“Murdery?”

“Yeah. I’m not killing anyone. Or hurting anyone.” One second Louis is still on his knees between Harry’s legs and a second later he’s back on the couch beside him. He tips his head side to side and says, “Well, there are other rules. Like, I can’t make anyone fall in love with you. And, um… death is still a thing, so I can’t do anything there. But other than that, it’s a free for all.”

“Why would anyone let you go, then? If it’s unlimited wishes?” Harry asks, a part of him still wondering where that box of glass bottles came from, even though he’s convinced himself they’re all a part of his hallucination. 

“They don’t,” Louis answers, looking at the golden cuffs on his wrists and tapping them thoughtfully. “But they all die eventually. And I eventually wind up somewhere else. Like here. With you.”

“No one’s offered to set you free?” Harry crosses his arms, offended at the very idea, and Louis shakes his head. “That’s stupid. I wish you free then. Holy shit!” As soon as the word ‘free’ leaves Harry’s mouth, the same blue and green vortex swirls around them and deposits them on Harry’s couch in Harry’s living room. And before his head can stop spinning, he’s got a lapful of naked Louis.

Louis kisses him roughly, licking at Harry’s lips, slipping his tongue between them, and moaning into Harry’s mouth. He backs up a bit, resting his forehead against Harry’s. “Thank you.”

“You’re naked!” Harry’s hands squeeze Louis’ bare ass of their own volition.

“Yeah… The downside to freedom, I suppose. No more magic. My bottle’s gone. Cuffs are gone too.” Louis holds his wrists up for Harry to see. 

Harry can’t help his disappointment. “The cuffs were nice.”

“We can get some new ones,” Louis offers, and Harry flushes at being so easily read.

“This is such a weird fucking trip, man. Not sure if I’m gonna kill Niall or not.”

“It’s not— This is awkward.” Louis huffs quietly. “This is real, Harry. If you want me to go, I’ll go. If I can borrow some pants or something first? I’m not sure where, but I can leave.”

Squinting, Harry peers at Louis through his lashes. The thing is, he feels sober. He feels awake. He doesn’t feel like he’s tripping. Louis’ ass feels real in his hands. So Harry does the only thing he can think of and closes his eyes, concentrating like he’s done a million times before, and tries to make himself fly. He’s always been able to fly in his dreams, it’s one of his favorite things about sleeping. But when he opens his eyes, he’s still sitting on his couch, his TV is still on in the background, and Louis is still in his lap. 

“Oh my god!” Harry releases his grip on Louis’ ass and covers his face with his hands. “You’re real! This is real! Oh my god! I’m sorry! I wished you to blow me! That’s so horrible! I’m so sorry!”

Louis wraps his hands around Harry’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. “Nothing to be sorry for, Harry. I enjoyed it.”

Shaking his head, Harry says, “You have to say that.”

“No, I don’t. Believe me, I’ve done a lot of shit I didn’t want to do.” Louis cups Harry’s chin and directs his attention downward until his eyes fall on Louis’ erect cock bobbing between them. “See?”

“No, but you’re a—”

“Not anymore, I’m not. I’m human now.” Louis shrugs one shoulder, then climbs backwards off Harry’s lap. “But like I said, if I can borrow some clothes, I can—”

“No! Don’t go. I— I’m— It’s my fault you’re free.” Harry bites his lower lip, standing so that Louis’ dick isn’t eye level. “I do have clothes you can wear. And you can leave if you want. But I… I’d like it if you’d stay.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks, hands on his hips. “I’m not magical anymore, you know. I can’t do anything for you. I’m pretty useless, actually. No job skills.”

“Blow job skills,” Harry responds without thinking.

Louis snorts. “Do still have those. Can’t disappear your come from my face, but I get the feeling you might like that.”

“I might. But you don’t have to.” Harry purses his lips. He’s not sure how to deal with a former genie.

“I don’t have to do _anything _anymore, Harry. Ever.” Louis nudges Harry’s pink sock covered foot with his bare one. “Thanks to you, I have my freedom. That includes the freedom to choose which cock to suck, which ass to fuck, and which cock I want to ride.”

Harry inhales sharply and whispers to himself, shaking his head, “Fuck me. Jesus.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Louis says with a wink and an easy smile. “But Jesus was a bottom.” 


End file.
